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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24611809">Just To Put Some Things Back In Perspective</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighlyOpinionatedNerd/pseuds/HighlyOpinionatedNerd'>HighlyOpinionatedNerd</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...except for when it's not, Gotham City is Terrible, about ordinary folk stepping up to offer help and support to their heroes, just some short little stories, one kid per chapter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:35:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24611809</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighlyOpinionatedNerd/pseuds/HighlyOpinionatedNerd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy to forget, sometimes, the reason that they started doing all this. Something that was once so big and so important gets lost in among all the little details, these days. But every time they forget what made them love Gotham in the first place- made them decide to dedicate their lives to protecting the city, and keeping the people safe- something always comes around to remind them again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Spontaneous, Unsolicited Batmobile Fund</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Watch out, watch out, watch out!”</p><p>Dick ducks and weaves his way through the crowd, eyes glued to the guy running ahead of him. He’s leading Dick through a busy subway station. A train must have just arrived, because there are people everywhere, and they’re going against the tide. But Dick isn’t about to let that stop him.</p><p>Someone in a blue beanie, with their nose buried in their phone, appears suddenly in his field of vision, despite all his warnings. Dick has to swerve hastily to the side to avoid tripping and falling over them, momentarily taking his eyes off his target. When he catches sight of him again, he’s heading towards one of the subway platforms.</p><p>So, that’s his game. He’s going to try to lose Dick by getting on a train.</p><p>It’s a good ploy, honestly. A for effort. It isn’t going to work, though.</p><p>“Look out,” he shouts one last time, and thankfully most of the people left hanging around the platform have the good sense to get out of his way. He puts on a burst of speed and dives through the subway doors <em>just</em> as they begin to close, and the train begins to pull away from the platform.</p><p>The crook he’s been chasing lets out an absolute howl of pure frustration, and turns to run again. Nevermind exactly where he thought he was going to go.</p><p>He doesn’t get far, anyway. Dick uses the floor as a springboard, leaps up and plants a flying kick right in the small of the dude’s back. He goes down and stays down, like a puppet with its strings cut.</p><p>Dick lets out a breath of relief, drops his fighting stance and relaxes the tension in his muscles. Until the train takes a turn, wobbling him around a bit before he gets his bearings back.</p><p>And that’s when, bit by bit, the implications of the fact that he’s on a moving subway train start to kick in. All of the other passengers in the car- presumably on their way home at the end of the work day- are staring at him. The doors were shut, and would presumably remain so until they reached the next subway station.</p><p>“Uh, sorry about that, folks,” he says, fighting back a laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. “Don’t mind us.”</p><p>“What’d that guy do?” asks one man in a tweed business suit loudly from near the end of the car.</p><p>“Attempted armed robbery of a gas station. Don’t worry though, he lost the gun a couple blocks back.”</p><p>“What are you gonna do with him?”</p><p>“Turn him over to the police. As soon as we reach the next station, I guess.”</p><p>“Just about ten minutes,” supplies a woman on his left helpfully.</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>“‘Ey, man, I got a bottle of water, if you want it,” offers a young man with long hair and a gold tooth across the car from Dick. “It ain’t opened.”</p><p>“Oh, thanks, but I don’t need it! I’m good, really.”</p><p>“You’re all sweaty,” the man protests, pulling the aforementioned bottle out of his backpack. “You been chasing that guy a long ways, you oughta drink summ’. Honest, I don’t need it either. Just take it, man.”</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Dick relents, smiling, and reaches out to take the water bottle. “Thank you.”</p><p>“No problem.”</p><p>Dick dutifully uncaps the bottle and takes a long drink. When he lowers it again, there’s an older man in a plain black suit timidly approaching from the other end of the car.</p><p>“Umm...excuse me, Mr. Nightwing, uh...sir?”</p><p>“Just Nightwing is fine, please,” he says, cringing a little internally at the formal address. “Something I can help you with?”</p><p>“Ah, well, I read in the papers about how Batman’s car was wrecked last week, while he was chasing Bane...”</p><p>“That’s right. He’s fine, though! He’s completely fine, and Bane is on his way to a secure cell in Blackgate.”</p><p>“Yes, I heard that he had been recaptured. And I am very glad indeed to hear that Batman was unharmed. It sure is a shame about the car, though.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, he’ll be back on the road in no time.” Dick assures him. He knows for a fact that Lucius keeps at least two backup Batmobiles on hand at all times.</p><p>“I figured he’d be looking to replace that car of his,” the stranger continues, “and to that end, I’d like to give you this.”</p><p>He holds out a handful of crumpled bills to Dick- even just at a glance, he can tell it has to be at least two hundred dollars.</p><p>“Oh, no, sir….that’s, uh, very, very kind of you to offer,” Dick says sincerely, “but we couldn’t take your money like that!”</p><p>“I want you to take it!” the man insists. “I know that Batman probably has a whole team of backers who can pay a hell of a lot more than this...but cars like them don’t come cheap, and every little bit helps, right?”</p><p>“Sir, I really, really do appreciate your generosity. But I just wouldn’t feel right, taking your money like that.”</p><p>“I wish you would! Batman has saved all of our lives more times than anyone can count by now, isn’t it only fair that we should give something back? Take the money, Nightwing, really. I’m just trying to help, I really wish you would take it.”</p><p>Dick sighs, in a fondly exasperated kind of way. He can tell from the look on this man’s face that he’s dead serious, and isn’t going to take no for an answer. What is he supposed to say to that?</p><p>“Alright, fine,” he says, raising his hands. “You win. On behalf of Batman and all his various associates, we’re humbled, and very thankful for your contribution.”</p><p>“God bless you,” the old man says, smiling as Dick takes the money from him.</p><p>“Here, Nightwing,” a woman with long dark braids calls, hurrying over from across the car, “take this too! It’s not much, but it’s all I got on me.”</p><p>“Oh, ma’am, you don’t need to-”</p><p>“Only wish I had more to give,” she says firmly, pressing the money into his hands.</p><p>“Over here, Nightwing, I have some money I can give!”</p><p>“Me, too!”</p><p>“Take this, as well!”</p><p>By the time they arrive at the next subway station, Nightwing has been given a donation by nearly every person in the car. Even a few from the neighboring cars, who had heard the racket they were making, have chipped in. Fortunately, someone had a plastic bag on hand, because otherwise, there was no way he would have been able to carry all of it.</p><p>When the doors open, he gathers up his unconscious criminal and his bag of Batmobile fund donations, and says one last heartfelt ‘thank you!’ to everyone in the car. Then he departs, and patches his communications in to call for a squad car to come pick up the attempted burglar. </p><p>The two cops that show up are kind enough not to ask about the admittedly very suspicious plastic bag of loose money tied around his wrist as they make the exchange.</p><p>Once they’re on their way to lockup with the crook safely contained in their back seat, Dick grapples up to the top of a nearby building and sits down, letting his legs swing playfully over the edge. The sun is just beginning to set, but there’s still enough light for him to count out all the money in the bag- it’s almost $1500, in total.</p><p>When he’s done counting, he calls Bruce. This little window of time, in between CEO Bruce Wayne’s day shift and Dark Knight Batman’s shift, is usually one of the best times to reach him.</p><p>Sure enough, the line clicks through and Dick hears his voice ask, “Is something wrong?”</p><p>“As much as I understand the circumstances that would lead you to think that’s a good way to answer phone calls from your family, I still really wish you wouldn’t.”</p><p>“Usually you only call me if there’s something wrong.”</p><p>“Well, not this time. This time it’s the opposite of something wrong, actually! I was on the subway in my suit earlier- long story- and a man came up to me, saying he wanted to give me money to give to you, to help pay for your new car.”</p><p>“That’s, uh, very selfless of him, I suppose. Was he under the impression that we were in need of money…?”</p><p>“The rest of the world doesn’t know you’re rich,” Dick points out. “He assumed Batman was funded by a team of financial backers, I think.”</p><p>“That’s a new one.”</p><p>“But he said he wanted to chip in, anyway. Wouldn’t leave me alone until I took his money. And then, a whole mess of other people started throwing money at me, too. Isn’t that sweet? They gave me almost fifteen hundred dollars!”</p><p>“That’s wonderful,” Bruce says, and Dick can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s good to be reminded that there are still so many good people in Gotham, even after all this time.”</p><p>“My thoughts exactly. What should we do with all this, though?”</p><p>“Well, we won’t be needing it for the car. I’m picking up the new one from Lucius tomorrow, just as soon as he can get a fresh coat of paint on it.”</p><p>“Yeah, I figured as much.”</p><p>“You could donate it to charity. Pass it along to someone who needs it more than we do.”</p><p>“That’s a good idea! I’ll do that.”</p><p>“Probably best to split it between a few different places, if you have the time.”</p><p>“I have the time,” Dick says. Below him, the streetlights are just beginning to flicker to life over the heads of the lingering passerby. “I’ll take care of it.”</p><p>Some people end phone calls with ‘I love you’. Bruce always asks, “when will I see you next?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Dick says. “I’ll be up north all weekend, and maybe Monday, too.”</p><p>“Up north, huh?” Their little code-speak for ‘at the Watchtower’.</p><p>“Yep. And you’ll be out, uh, Tuesday and Wednesday, right?”</p><p>“And Thursday, like as not.”</p><p>“Take as long as you need. We’ll handle things here.”</p><p>“I know you will.”</p><p>“And I’ll see you...what, Friday, then? If all goes according to plan?”</p><p>“Alright. Friday. Take care, Dick.”</p><p>“You too, Bruce.”</p><p>He ends the call. Stands up and stretches his arms over his head. Reties the bag of money around his wrist.</p><p>Then he hops lightly off the rooftop; off to spread charity and goodwill, in the name of the people of Gotham.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>When I was young, I once saw a documentary about comics that made the following point: when we look at the Ancient Greeks, or the Romans, we can tell what their most important cultural values were from their mythology. America, on the other hand, is a big melting pot of cultures and people from all walks of life. We don't have a unified set of beliefs like that. Instead, what we have to teach us about morals, and what we as a people both value and fear, is comics.</p><p>That description really stuck with me. If you think about it, it makes sense: to the ordinary people on the street, Batman and his team must seem like superpowered guardian angels. While the supercriminals they fight to keep under control are more like demons straight out of hell. I wanted to write some little scenes that bring that mindset to the attention of the Batfam, cause I think it's just such an interesting concept.</p><p>Thanks for reading chapter 1! Hope you enjoyed it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Not-So Anonymous Tip Line</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Barbara is bored.</p><p>It’s a rare occurrence to find herself without anything to do these days. At first it’s quite nice, just to have some space to breathe. But if it lasts longer than about an hour? She starts looking around for something to do again. After two hours, she starts to catch herself actually wishing for a bank robbery. Or a mysterious, mutilated body. Or maybe a fire. Something, anything, to occupy her time again.</p><p>After the three hour mark, she’s been known to go digging through her folder of old Riddler puzzles. Yeah...she’s not proud of that.</p><p>Normally, rather than stoop that low again, she’d call one of her teammates for a distraction. But at the moment- which is to say, 3:27 AM- all of them are either sleeping or working on their own projects.</p><p>She sighs heavily. She’s beginning to regret not taking Dick up on his offer to go ‘up north’ with him for the weekend. It’s true that the Watchtower isn’t really built to accommodate wheelchair users, which is why she initially declined. But now she’s so bored that she thinks she’d rather be struggling with that than sitting here doing nothing. Watching him train new recruits, or whatever it is he’s doing.</p><p>She’s just starting to contemplate checking in with some of their international League allies- it’s gotta be a decent hour in Africa, where Vixen is, right now, right?- to see if there’s any need for tech support on anything, when her computer makes a loud ‘ding!’ sound, and a new window pops up at the corner of her screen.</p><p>Barbara sits up and straightens her glasses. That particular ding is reserved for an alert from her Oracle tip line.</p><p>“Uh,” says a small voice, “hello?”</p><p>“Speak,” she says into her modified computer mic. Her voice comes out garbled and menacing on the other end of the line.</p><p>“O-oh, uh...o-ok,” the voice stammers. “Is this...is this, um, Oracle?”</p><p>Barbara frowns, her fingers flying across her keyboard as she works to triangulate the caller’s location. This tip line isn’t, like, in the yellow pages. It isn’t obvious. It’s out there for criminals- people who realize they’re in over their heads, and that they might be in danger, and that it might be in their best interests to seek out her help. They can trade information for reduced sentences, and stuff like that.</p><p>She really doesn’t get that many calls. Once, some goon thought it would be funny to prank call her. She’d had Jason make an example of him, and since then the few calls she’s answered have been nothing but serious inquiries.</p><p>But this caller isn’t like the others. The voice on the other end definitely doesn’t sound like it belongs to a hardened criminal. Sounds more like a scared kid.</p><p>“Did you call this number expecting to get someone else?”</p><p>“No, no, I just...uh…”</p><p>By now, the kid’s officially wasted enough time that she’s got his info. José Ramirez, 14 years old. He’s calling her from his home address in the Narrows.</p><p>“...I didn’t think you’d actually answer,” he finishes meekly.</p><p>Barbara sighs again.</p><p>“This isn’t a game, you know.”</p><p>“Right, right, of course, I just-”</p><p>“My time is valuable. And I don’t intend to waste any of it on a pointless call. Understand me, Mr. Ramirez?”</p><p>“Yes, I- hang on, how d’you know my name?!”</p><p>“It’s my job to know things. You know what they say, after all; knowledge is power. So, unless you have some of your own to share-”</p><p>“Wait! Wait! I do, I have something to tell you! Something important!”</p><p>“So tell me, then,” Barbara says, casually scrolling through José’s school report cards for the past six years or so. He’s a solid C+ student, on average.</p><p>“W-what...what’s in it for me, if I do?”</p><p>She rolls her eyes. Little late to try putting up a brave front now, isn’t it?</p><p>“Depends. Give me your intel first.”</p><p>“No, I can’t do that, I want-”</p><p>“Mr. Ramirez. I thought I told you not to waste my time. Either tell me whatever it is, or hang up. I’ll be the one to decide what your information is worth to me.”</p><p>José hesitates. Barbara feels a slight twinge of guilt, but she ignores it. Her job, unlike most of the rest of the teams’, doesn’t really allow her the luxury of relaxing her intimidating persona with civilians.</p><p>“Alright,” he finally gives in, “fine. The truth is, I’m pretty sure Joker is planning something. Probably something pretty big.”</p><p>“Uh-huh. And, were you aware that the Joker is currently being held at Arkham Asylum?”</p><p>“Yeah, of course I knew that. But, he might be planning to break out soon!”</p><p>Barbara shakes her head. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, Mr. Ramirez.”</p><p>“O-oh, right...the beginning...well, see my father just got out of prison. He used to work for Joker, but he got busted, and sent to Blackgate for five years. But he got released, and when he came back, he was different. Even my Mama said she thought he was doing a lot better than he was before. So, everything was really good for a few months...”</p><p>“Go on.”</p><p>“Well...he lost his job a couple of weeks ago. He’s been looking for another one, but, nothing so far. And then, recently, my sister and I started to notice him acting funny.”</p><p>“Funny how?”</p><p>“Funny like, going out late at night and not coming back until morning. Not talking to us about it, or answering my Mama’s questions. Made us think he might have gotten mixed up with Joker’s business again.”</p><p>“That’s it? That’s all you have to go on?”</p><p>“I stayed up, and tried to follow him, one time,” José confesses. “I lost sight of him somewhere in Drescher. But, there was some graffiti on the wall that looked really fresh, of some creepy smiley faces.”</p><p>Barbara frowns. It sounds...well, like nothing. But it could very easily be not nothing. She can easily name half a dozen cases where Bruce has moved on less evidence than that, and ended up actually busting a serious crime before it happened. Joker controls his minions through fear more so than thorough money, or inspired loyalty. It’s entirely possible that he’s been able to orchestrate some grand plan, even from within the Asylum’s walls.</p><p>“Alright. We’ll take your information into consideration, and someone will look into it.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“And in return?”</p><p>“I don’t...I don’t want my dad to go back to jail.” There’s a note of mild desperation in his voice as he says it. “Please.”</p><p>“...I can’t promise that,” Barbara says, as gently as she can. “If there’s something bad going down, the police will have to do what’s necessary to protect the people.”</p><p>“...Oh.”</p><p>“But I will alert Batman of your situation. Chances are, he’ll want to speak with your father. And if he cooperates, he may escape a second sentence.”</p><p>“Really?!”</p><p>“Maybe, I said maybe. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”</p><p>“Right, right. Still, though. Thank you, Oracle.”</p><p>“You’re welcome. I need you to do one more thing for me, ok?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Do not, under any circumstance, tell your father that you’ve spoken to me. Alright?”</p><p>“Wait, why not?”</p><p>“Just a precaution, to protect you and the rest of your family. If your father’s going to get himself out of this mess, it has to be his own decision to do so. You understand? This conversation is our little secret.”</p><p>“Ok. If you say so.”</p><p>“Swear to me.”</p><p>“Fine, I swear.”</p><p>“Good. I’ll hold you to that. You should know something within a few days.”</p><p>José starts to thank her again, but she’s already ended the call. If what he suspects is true, and Joker really is plotting something, then there’s no time to waste. She has to get digging, find out everything she can and compile it, so that Bruce will have the file waiting for him by morning. When it comes to the Joker, even the slightest of delays could put lives in danger. She’s got to work fast.</p><p>So much for bored.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just because she was sitting around thinking to herself how bored out of her mind she was two minutes ago doesn't mean her time's not extremely valuable, ok, José???</p><p>Thanks for reading chapter 2!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Life Advice From A Former Gunrunner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Jason was...oh, probably about 13, Bruce had caught him breaking into a church on Bleake Island with an old hairpin and a bent-up paperclip. At that age, he’d still been pretty terrified of The Batman, and absolutely petrified of making him mad. He’d stammered out something about having reasons to believe that that church had been serving as a drop point for illegal, high grade weaponry, and apologized as profusely as he knew how to.</p><p>But Bruce hadn’t been upset with him. Or, well, he had been upset, but he didn’t react the way Jason had expected him to. Didn’t raise his voice, didn’t try to tell him he was grounded, nothing like that. He’d just said, quite calmly, that in the future he wished Jason wouldn’t try to do dangerous stuff like that on his own, and then helped him bust in and confiscate all the stolen guns. And the next day, he’d handed Jason a brand new set of professional lock picks, and taught him how to use them.</p><p>Jason thinks about that story almost every time he uses those picks. His humble beginnings. He used to wonder endlessly about why Bruce had given them to him. Dick didn’t have a fancy set of lock picks, after all, and neither did Barbara.</p><p>It wasn’t until years later, when Bruce brought home some new kind of micro-processing chip for Tim to play with instead of reprimanding him for recklessly hacking into the social media accounts of half the local board of governors, that he finally got it. He was taking what would usually be considered naturally-occurring bad habits and turning them into actual skills. Skills they could hone, and use to help them fight crime more effectively.</p><p>But anyway. Enough reminiscing. He has a job to do.</p><p>The lock on the window clicks open, and Jason slips through into the room on the other side of it. It’s a cozy little office, very lived-in, absolutely littered with books and stacks of loose papers and knick knacks.</p><p>There’s a big wooden desk, too, with a couple of cushioned chairs facing it. Just what he needs.</p><p>He drags one of the chairs around to face the door, and flops down into it. Pulls out his phone to check the news and messages from League friends, wondering absently when the last time he’d been able to both sit and relax like this on the job had been. Jury says, maybe never? Or, well, he gets to sit down during stakeouts, most of the time. But that’s not the same thing, he doesn’t actually get to relax on those occasions the way he is n-</p><p>The door opens.</p><p>Jason’s head snaps up, and he finds himself face to face with a stranger.</p><p>For a moment, the two of them just stare at each other.</p><p>“Dr. Jeremy Austin?” Jason guesses. Bad guys don’t typically wear turtleneck sweaters.</p><p>“Uh,” says Dr. Austin, “who are you?”</p><p>“I’m Red Hood,” Jason says pointedly. He’d have thought the big red helmet would have been a dead giveaway.</p><p>“Right. Of course. I knew that. What I meant was, what are you doing here?”</p><p>“I could ask you the same question, Doc. Intel said you’d gone home for the day.”</p><p>“I just went out for dinner,” Dr. Austin says nervously, brow furrowing. “I came back to grade papers, and update my slideshows for next week…”</p><p>Jason shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that tonight if I were you.”</p><p>“Why not?!”</p><p>“You work with the art museum sometimes, don’t you? And they just got in a new shipment of stuff for restoration, didn’t they?”</p><p>“Yes? And?”</p><p>“Scarface’s gang wants to steal ‘em.”</p><p>Dr. Austin frowns. “And...what exactly does that have to do with me?”</p><p>“Well, they’d need your ID if they want access to the restoration room.”</p><p>“What makes you think they won’t just try to force their way in?”</p><p>“Eh, they might. There’s not really much else going on at the moment, so we split up resources on this one. There’s someone at the museum, in case they do. There’s a couple watching your house, too. Just so you know.”</p><p>“I see…”</p><p>“I mean, they’re outside. They’ll be able to see if anyone pulls up. You can take your papers there. Or, I mean, I guess you could do it here, still, if you wanted. I’ll just be here, too.”</p><p>“Oh. Well. That’s fine, I guess.”</p><p>Jason scoots his chair to the side, to let Austin through to his desk. As he does so, he pockets his phone. When you get taken by surprise by a dude in a turtleneck sweater who wasn’t even attempting to be stealthy, it’s time to put the phone down.</p><p>“So, Red Hood,” Austin says, pulling up his chair and booting up his computer. “You sound younger than I thought you’d be. Are you in college?”</p><p>“Ohh, no. No, it, uh...wasn’t for me.”</p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>“Fighting crime is a full time job. Some of the others on our little team have found ways to fit school in there somewhere, but. It’s just not for me.”</p><p>Austin chuckles. “You sound just like I did at your age.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. I had a job to do, I didn’t have time for no stinkin’ college degree! Hah, and just look at me now.”</p><p>“Huh.” Jason scoots his chair again, back to its original orientation facing the desk. “And yet I can’t help noticing, you now hold a doctorate in art history. What changed your mind?”</p><p>“Batman.”</p><p>“...Really?”</p><p>“Really! Can you keep a secret, Red Hood?”</p><p>“Better than anyone you know, Doc.”</p><p>Austin chuckles again. “Alright. The truth is, I used to run with Penguin’s crew.”</p><p>“You’re kidding me.”</p><p>“Nope. That was my full time job, smuggling guns and ammo and boxes of grenades. I’m not especially proud of that, but it was a decent living. And then...you see, in the early days, half of us thought that Batman was nothing more than a myth. An urban legend. But he caught up to us, of course. Kicked me in the face and knocked out two of my teeth, landed me in jail for six months.”</p><p>“Wow,” says Jason, sincerely. Austin hadn’t struck him as the hired muscle type at all. It’s kind of hard to imagine him having done time.</p><p>“But, thanks to that little reality check, I was able to turn myself around,” Austin says, shrugging modestly. “I went back to school. I got a real job, doing something I love and that I can say I’m proud of.”</p><p>“That’s awesome, man.”</p><p>“Thanks. Anyway, the moral of the story is, it’s never too late.”</p><p>“I’ll...keep that in mind.”</p><p>Suddenly, Jason’s earpiece sounds an alert, and a little flashing red icon pops up in the corner of his helmet screen.</p><p>“Well, well, well,” he says, grinning. “Looks like you were right, Doc. An alarm was just triggered at the museum.”</p><p>“Oh, no! You said there was someone there, though, right?”</p><p>“Yep. The man himself.”</p><p>“Oh.” Dr. Austin grins, too. “Well, in that case, I don’t think I need to worry. I’m sure I’ll read all about it in the papers tomorrow.”</p><p>“Probably.”</p><p>“Aaaand, I suppose there’s no more reason for you to hang around here! I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Red Hood.”</p><p>“Same here, Dr. Austin. Take care of yourself. I’ll come see your exhibit once the restoration is done.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know some people think we music teachers are a weird crowd but art teachers???? Some of the WILDEST people I've ever met. Gotta love em.</p><p>Thanks for reading chapter 3!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Back Alley Bandages</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Light warning this chapter for blood/injury/application of first aid! Watch out!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim’s costume was way overdue for an upgrade, so he sent it off to Lucius for him to work his magic on. Sure, fine, right, makes sense. And then Jason was called away on emergency League business of some kind or other, and Tim was called in for an extra patrol shift. Whatever, that kind of thing happens all the time. The problem, is that these two events occurred on the same day. He had to go out in his old, made-of-regular-cloth, backup suit.</p><p>No, you know what, that isn’t the real problem either. Normally that wouldn’t have been much more than an inconvenience. The real problem is that he stopped in to bust up a gang of average joe street thugs up to no good, and one of them had a baseball bat with a mess of nails hammered into it. C’mon, man, seriously?! You couldn’t just carry around a piece of iron pipe, or some bronze knuckles, or even a jerry-rigged pistol of some sort, like everybody else?!</p><p>He supposes the real real problem is that all three of the events happened to coincide. A weapon like that wouldn’t have hurt him if he were wearing his normal, special-flexible-armor-material, upgraded suit.</p><p>But. As it is.</p><p>He’s hurt.</p><p>Despite the injury, he was able to push through and finish that fight, so. That’s all taken care of. He tied those guys up and left them for the police, per usual protocol. And then he grappled up, not wanting to be there when the police actually arrived, which is when the adrenaline started to wear off and he began to realize exactly how bad he’s hurt.</p><p>Normally, in this kind of situation, he’d call Bruce. But, you see...there’s another problem.</p><p>The problem is, he and Bruce had an argument. A big argument. The kind that means they’re not currently on speaking terms.</p><p>He swings around to the first secluded-looking alley he sees. Because he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to hold on to the grapple line much longer. Thank goodness he managed to find an empty space, because he botches the landing like an inexperienced ten year old, tripping over his own feet, landing on his side, and sliding unceremoniously for a few feet before skidding to a stop.</p><p>In addition to his nail bat wound, he now has the asphalt equivalent of carpet burn on his shoulder. That stings a little, he’s not going to lie.</p><p>Is he being stubborn by waiting for Bruce to make the first move and apologize, he wonders absently as he gingerly sits up? Probably. But Bruce is stubborn too, and just for once Tim wants to win out over that stubbornness. He wants to be more important to Bruce than whatever point he thinks he’s proving by being stubborn. That’s all he wants.</p><p>God, his back hurts. He tried to dodge it, but that goon still managed to whack him pretty hard. And then the motion of his failure of a dodge dragged those nails across his skin. Ouch.</p><p>He grits his teeth and reaches for his belt for painkillers, and bandages, and antibiotics, and the blue gel stuff that’ll stop the bleeding. It hurts just to move his arms even that much. He can’t imagine how he’s going to get the bandages actually on himself.</p><p>He clumsily pops a couple of painkiller pills, and is trying to think of a clever way around not being able to even unzip his own suit, when he hears the telltale sounds of someone walking into the alley.</p><p>Tim curses under his breath and scoots backwards, hoping he’ll blend into the shadows and whoever it is won’t notice him.</p><p>But, unfortunately, his movement seems to attract the attention of the passerby. Her head snaps around, and she calls out loudly, “who’s there?”</p><p>He wants to scream with frustration. Could this night go any worse?</p><p>“Who’s down there?” the woman asks again, readying her phone in one hand and the little thing of pepper spray on her key ring in the other before cautiously approaching. “Is there someone- ack! What the...Are you...Robin?”</p><p>“Red Robin,” Tim corrects her automatically. Apparently the night could, in fact, get worse!</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry...hey, uh, are you alright?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” The obvious strain in his voice begs to differ, but he tries to put on a convincing air anyway. “You can go about your business.”</p><p>“You don’t look fine,” she says, approaching him a little more bravely now. “Oh, gosh, you’re bleeding!”</p><p>“I said I’m fi-”</p><p>“Let me take a look at that!”</p><p>The woman rushes over and kneels down on the pavement beside him, despite his weak protests.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” she says, reaching up to unzip his suit, “I’m a nurse. I get it if you don’t want to be taken to the hospital in your little hero gear, but you should still at least let me help you.”</p><p>Tim sighs, and gives up. A big part of heroing, one he’s never been particularly good at, is knowing when to admit you need help. He guesses this must be one of those times.</p><p>“Ouch,” the nurse groans sympathetically as she peels the ruined fabric away from his skin. “Sorry I don’t have any pain meds on me, kid.”</p><p>“Took some,” Tim hisses through gritted teeth. “Here, bandages...”</p><p>“Oh! Good of you to be prepared for this kind of thing, I guess. What’s this stuff?”</p><p>“To stop the bleeding.”</p><p>“Right, well we’ll just go ahead and use that all up, too.”</p><p>Tim shudders as she begins to treat him, wiping away the blood before administering the medicine. It’s icy cold to the touch, and it stings.</p><p>“Hang in there,” she says soothingly as she works. “You’re a tough kid. Most grown men would be screaming their heads off right about now.”</p><p>“Gee. Thanks.”</p><p>“You know- hold your arm out, I know it hurts, but bear with me- I’ve always hoped I’d get the chance to run into one of you Bat Folks someday.”</p><p>“You don’t say,” Tim gasps. He feels nauseous.</p><p>“I was here when Batman first came to Gotham, you know,” she tells him as she begins winding the bandages carefully around his torso. “Zero year, some people call it.”</p><p>“...You were?”</p><p>“Yep! I was in my first year of nursing then, too, actually. It was a rough year, that one. Without Batman having stepped up, I don’t know what would have happened to any of us. Almost done, kid, hang in there. Gosh, that first year seems like such a long time ago now! And so many more crazy things have happened since. I must’ve treated boatloads of thugs Batman has sent through my ER by now.”</p><p>“Wow.” The painkillers are starting to kick in, he thinks. His back doesn’t hurt quite as much.</p><p>“Anyway, I’ve always wanted the chance to thank him. For everything he does, to protect all of us. Will you tell him that for me?”</p><p>“I...Yes. I will.”</p><p>“Thanks, kid. Alright, how’s that feel? Too tight?”</p><p>“No, I think it’s alright. Thank you, really.”</p><p>“No problem. Change those bandages every couple of hours for a few days, alright?”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>“Good boy. Alright, now, get on home with you, Red Robin. I’ll leave you to it. Take care of yourself out there.”</p><p>“I will. Thanks again.”</p><p>The nurse waves cheerily and walks away, down the alley and out of sight. Tim sits there for a few moments more, until the pain and nausea really start to subside, and then he grapples back up again, taking her advice and heading in for the night.</p><p>As he goes, he dial’s Bruce’s number.”</p><p>“Tim?” Bruce’s voice sounds in his earpiece. “Did something happen?”</p><p>“Hey, Bruce. Everything’s fine. I mean, well, not really, I got hurt earlier-”</p><p>“What! Where are you? Are you alright? Hang on, I’ll be right there, just-”</p><p>“It’s ok, it’s ok! A good samaritan gave me first aid. I’m on my way back to the Manor now.”</p><p>“Oh.” He sounds uneasy. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come get you?”</p><p>“No, I’ve got it. Really.”</p><p>“Well. If you’re sure.”</p><p>“Hey, um...Bruce?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“I’m sorry for yelling at you, earlier. I know you’re trying to keep my best interests at heart, I just-”</p><p>“Tim, it’s alright. You don’t have to apologize. I think there’s blame to go around for that argument, and I’m sorry too, for not respecting your wishes.”</p><p>“O-oh. Ok.”</p><p>“That doesn’t matter right now, anyway. We can talk about it once you’re back safe, ok?”</p><p>“Ok. Thank you.”</p><p>“Sure. Hurry home.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This one goes out to all the medical professionals out there working to keep us all safe and healthy. Thank you. I know it's been a rough year, and it shows no sign of slowing down, but please know that your services are appreciated and that you are actively making a difference every day you show up to work. God knows I could never do it. I freaked out even trying to research what to do to treat a bleeding wound in order to write this chapter! If it's inaccurate in any way, that's definitely why...</p><p>Thanks all for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Over-The-Counter Allies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thank god for open-twenty-four-seven convenience stores. It’s two-something in the morning and Steph is coming off a particularly long shift, at the end of a particularly trying week. She feels like she could sleep for days. She just has to make a quick stop for some much-needed supplies first.</p><p>Snacks, pads, a new tube of toothpaste and a pack of gum. A handful of makeup products- in her line of work, a girl runs through concealer pretty quick. </p><p>When she drops this particular armful of stuff on the check out counter, she doesn’t really stop to think about what kind of a message it’s sending, until the cashier- a heavyset black woman- gives her a meaningful look and says, “oh, honey, he’s not worth it.”</p><p>Steph blinks. </p><p>Belatedly, realizes that she’s covered in numerous visible scratches and bruises, on account of being out of concealer.</p><p>“Ah. No, uh, you see, it’s not like that…”</p><p>“That’s what they all say. He treats you like that, and you still gon’ sit there and defend him? You oughta leave his ass now, honey, before it’s too late.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Steph says, smiling, “but, really, it’s not like that. These are from work, not home. Honest,” she adds when the cashier raises an eyebrow skeptically at her, “I wouldn’t lie, not about that.”</p><p>“Is that so? What kinda work you doin’, again?”</p><p>“Uhhhh...I’m with animal control.”</p><p>“Animal control.”</p><p>“Yep. Family business.”</p><p>“Hm.” The cashier makes a face, and reaches over to start scanning her stuff. “They ain’t give you no protective gear, or anything?”</p><p>“Would you believe me if I told you we have the best, most advanced, high-tech protective gear on the market?”</p><p>“With the way you look right now, I’m not inclined to.”</p><p>“That’s fair,” Steph laughs. “”S true, though. We mostly work with real big, violent animals, you see.”</p><p>“Like what? Horses?”</p><p>“Yup. Uh-huh, horses. Definitely.”</p><p>“You don’ say. Didn’t know there was a demand for that kinda work around Gotham.”</p><p>“You’d be surprised, really. The rich folks around here get up to some wild stuff.”</p><p>“Oh, them rich folk, is it? Shoot, honey, say no more. I don’ even wanna know.”</p><p>Steph laughs again. “Sounds to me like you’re speaking from experience.”</p><p>“My father- god rest his soul- he was a gardener, you know? Professional landscaper. It was his job to keep all them fancy-ass lawns lookin’ pretty.”</p><p>“Oh, I bet he came home with some good stories.”</p><p>“Sure did! I think having all that money must do something to these folks’ heads. Half of ‘em are straight up insane. You wouldn’t believe some of the things they said to him.”</p><p>“Try me,” Steph says, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the counter. There’s no one else in the store. It’s not like she’s holding anyone else up.</p><p>“Well, you ever heard of the Denton family, what lives up there right near the bay?”</p><p>“Sure have.” She was at their Christmas party last year, she thinks. The one where the food was good, but not quite good enough to make up for the fact that the hostess vented to her about conspiracy theories for almost half an hour before she could make her escape. “The wife is supposed to be a real weirdo, isn’t she?”</p><p>The cashier rolls her eyes. “You don’t know the half of it. She was talking to my father about installing some new topiaries once- you know, them sculptures made out of hedges?- and he said he just couldn’t believe some of the ideas this woman was contemplating. She told him she wanted to make a ‘bold statement’, or something like that. As if anyone cares what kinda bushes you have in your yard, lady.”</p><p>“What’d she want?”</p><p>“At first she asked if it would be possible to recreate a Bhuddist temple, like the kind you find in Japan, out of bushes. Which, he said, no, not on the budget you gave me. So she says, ok, how about we get a scene of a manticore being slain by a hero with a sword? You know what a manticore is?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I do. Man! Why would you want that kind of thing on your lawn?!”</p><p>“Heck if I know, girl. They eventually settled on a larger-than-life fairy ring, only the mushrooms were made out of bushes. Bushes!”</p><p>“Jeez! Sounds like Mrs. Denton was going through some whack kind of mythological obsessive phase.”</p><p>“I dunno, I guess so. My father showed me pictures when he was done, and them bushes were all perfectly sculpted, so, she got what she wanted. My daddy was good at his job.”</p><p>“I’m sure he was.”</p><p>“And they decorated with pretty lights and such, it actually didn’t look that bad at all. I’m just glad he was able to talk her out of the manticore thing.”</p><p>“Say,” Steph asks, fighting to keep a straight face, “did your father ever do any work for that Wayne guy? He’s supposed to be a pretty eccentric weirdo, too.”</p><p>“You know, the papers all seem to like painting that picture of him, but my father said he was his favorite client! Real nice guy, always asked about his family and such, and tipped him real well all the time. And he never wanted no dying manticore topiary. The only thing he said, is that he seemed weirdly excited about having a hedge maze put in. You know how rich folks sometimes have little mazes in their gardens, with like, fountains in the center?”</p><p>“Yes!” Dick’s told her the story of the hedge maze. Bruce had it put in when Dick was eleven. The pipes for the fountain also deliver a supply of fresh, clean water to the little lab in the cave, so they don’t have to summon Alfred with a pitcher every time they want to analyze a sample or get working on a new formula. They also use the maze for stealth training with new family members, on occasion.</p><p>“Well, Mr. Wayne has one. I sure hope he gets his money’s worth out of it. My father always liked him. One second, honey, let me get all this in a bag for you…”</p><p>“Oh, that’s alright! I’m just gonna dump it all in my backpack, I don’t need a bag.”</p><p>“Alright, then, your total is twenty-five seventy-two.”</p><p>“Here you go,” Steph says, swiping her card and shovelling her haul into her open bag. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Sure thing, honey. You be careful out there, now, with them rich folks’ horses.”</p><p>“I will, thank you! Have a good night!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Batkids covered in bruises and always having to wear a lot of makeup when they go out in public is a long-cherished headcanon of mine, I'm glad I finally had a place to put it in writing : )</p><p>Thanks for reading! Between this chapter and the last one I've moved (!) and started work at my new job (!!!), so I'm not sure when the next one will go up, but I'll do my best to get it out there soon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. What Happens The Gotham City Sidewalk At Midnight…</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cass is tracking a target. A man suspected of smuggling and distributing drugs throughout the city. She and Bruce agree that he’s definitely guilty. In their minds, there’s no question about it. However, they need solid, concrete proof before they turn him over to the police, and the courts. So she’s following him, until she gets the proof she needs.</p><p>Unfortunately for her, he’s not smuggling drugs right now. He’s not even looking at bank records, or anything that could help her case. He’s playing poker with a group of friends in a shady bar downtown.</p><p>But that’s ok. Cass is patient. She’ll wait here until he leaves, and follow him to wherever he goes next, and eventually she’ll catch him at it. However long it takes, she’ll wait.</p><p>The bar itself sits on a street corner, and from the rooftop across the street she can see through a window to the table where he’s sitting, working his way through his third beer and cheating in what he obviously thinks is a very smooth manner. Everyone else at the table is cheating, too, Cass notes. None of them are very good at it. There are seven active aces in the deck, and somehow no one has seemed to notice yet.</p><p>Watching them quickly grows tiresome. It isn’t long before she turns her attention away from the poker game, in favor of one of her most favorite pastimes ever: people watching.</p><p>It’s very late, and there isn’t a big crowd of pedestrians out and about. But that only means that the few passing by outside the bar are more fun to watch. Because they think no one is watching, and are acting however they want.</p><p>It’s really very entertaining. In the time since she’s been sitting here, three people have already gone past, walking their dogs and talking to them in special baby voices. She loves it.</p><p>Passing below her on the sidewalk now is a young woman with very bright pink hair, wearing a frilly skirt over patterned tights and old, worn tennis shoes. Cass can’t imagine ever being brave enough to dress like that in public- she doesn’t like to draw any more attention to herself than absolutely necessary- but this girl is really pulling it off.</p><p>She’s got headphones on, too, and is happily dancing her way down the street, mouthing along to whatever song’s playing in her ears. Cass watches her do a little twirl and kick her leg out, a big, infectious smile on her face.</p><p>Cass grins. She can imagine one or two of her teammates doing the same thing. Namely Steph and Dick, although she’s heard the sound of Jason singing in the shower through the bathroom door enough that she wouldn’t put it past him, either.</p><p>The dancing girl moves on, out of sight, momentarily replaced by a father carrying his young child on his shoulders. The kid looks ready to fall asleep, but is dutifully doing their best to stay awake to continue their conversation with their dad.</p><p>After a moment, they two are out of her sight, too, and her block is deserted. Cass’ mind wanders- she wonders where the memories of being a toddler go when you grow up. She wonders who that kid will grow up to be. She wonders, by the time that kid’s grown up, who she will be. She wonders who she would have grown up to be if she hadn’t been lucky enough to cross paths with Bruce.</p><p>On and off, she wonders how long her drug dealer is going to sit drinking and playing poker. </p><p>Eventually, another pedestrian comes along to entertain her. This one is a young man, with his nose buried in a book and a frown of concentration on his face.</p><p>“Hello,” she heard him say out loud in a thick accent as he passed, “my name is Ki-Jong. I am happy to meet you. I am from Korea. I am a...daneoneun mwoshibnika…?” </p><p>He flips through his book- a translation dictionary, from the looks of it- and squints, searching for the words to complete his sentence. </p><p>“Ah,” he says after a moment, “student. Stoo-deunt. I am a history student.”</p><p>Cass smiles. She knows first-hand what that’s like. Ki-Jong is already doing better than her when she’d first started, though. She hopes he’ll be successful in his studies.</p><p>She sits on that rooftop for almost another hour, watching the late-night pedestrians go by on the street below her. Until finally, the poker game breaks up.</p><p>It doesn’t break up peacefully. One of the party accuses another of cheating, and then everyone starts pointing fingers. There’s a short, very chaotic fist fight, before all of them are thrown out on the street by the bouncer. Her target, with a newly-acquired black eye, shouts at his friends for a bit, then turns and walks, grumbling, to his car.</p><p>Cass sighs. Considering how drunk he is, he probably isn’t going to be doing any drug smuggling tonight. She should just call it a day and go home.</p><p>But, then again, considering how drunk he is, he really shouldn’t be driving. If she follows him some more, maybe there’ll be reason enough to call the cops on him for driving while under the influence. And if he’s out of the picture, it would be much easier for her to sneak in and find the evidence she needs to keep him in jail for a long time.</p><p>That best-case-scenario is probably a little unrealistic, but it’s ok. At the very least, she’ll follow him home. If nothing happens, then nothing happens. Tomorrow’s a new day, and Cass is patient.</p><p>Sooner or later, she’ll get what she wants.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tag yourself, I'm the girl dancing when she thought no one else was around.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Badges of Honor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Damian’s time is valuable, ok? There’s no room for spontaneity in his life. Everything is planned out in advance, so as to maximize productivity. He carefully budgets in extra flex time to every week’s schedule, to accommodate for responding to emergency situations and the like. He follows his timetables religiously. It’s what keeps him sane.</p><p>But this week. This. Week.</p><p>In one week, there were three supervillain attacks. Riddler, who somehow managed to take and maintain control of all the subway trains in the city for over thirty hours before they caught him. Penguin, who flooded the entire bay area in some scatterbrained attempt to get...well, who knows what, actually. Damian has never found Penguin the most articulate person. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Vandal Savage had the audacity to show up and launch an attack on the Watchtower.</p><p>And just to top it all off, he’s quickly beginning to realize that even before his schedule was shot, he didn’t budget nearly enough time in to get this stupid research paper done.</p><p>He’s been sitting at the same little table in the library for almost two hours now, cursing under his breath in every language that he knows and getting pretty much nothing done. Exactly what was the point again, he wonders, of making American history a required course? Why should he have to write four pages about an event that happened over a hundred years ago, and that the significance of which has been overwritten dozens of times since? Why should he have to spend a year in a classroom learning about all the belligerent things the US has done in the past, that they seem so proud of???</p><p>Perhaps he overestimated...well, not so much his reading level as his tolerance for obnoxiously academic language when he picked the books for his bibliography. He reads the same sentence over and over again and doesn’t absorb it any better with the repetition. His teacher’s instructions are cryptic enough that he’s starting to wonder if she even knows what she wants, either. He’s tired and annoyed and he hates everyone and everything.</p><p>He’s just starting to wonder if it’s worth the trouble to try and find new sources, when his train of thought is abruptly interrupted by a cheerful voice saying, “hey, man, cool scar! Where’d you get it?”</p><p>Damian scowls. Ohhh, just what he needs right now. Yet another reminder of why he should never go out in public in short sleeves. You’d think he’d have learned his lesson by now. After all, this happens every single time. Someone always has to ask.</p><p>‘Someone’ this time is a pair of tall white teens, one with long shaggy blond hair and meticulously clean sneakers, the other with a college football cap and the edge of a tacky cross tattoo visible from under his t-shirt sleeve.</p><p>Normally, when people ask him stupidly personal questions like that, he lies. Boring, mundane lies that no one thinks twice about. His go-tos for the big slice down his right forearm are either ‘cooking accident’, or ‘car wreck’.</p><p>But today, seeing as he hates everyone and everything, he’s not in the mood to lie politely and smile it off. So he tells them the truth.</p><p>“Deathstroke.”</p><p>That doesn’t have the effect he thought it would, though. The two guys don’t act shocked and apologize for bringing it up. Oh no. They’re impressed.</p><p>“Bro, seriously?!”</p><p>“Dude! You’re lucky to have survived that!”</p><p>“Mmhmm. Yep, sure am.”</p><p>“What was it like? Did he say anything to you?”</p><p>“He called me an annoying brat,” Damian snaps. Which is also true, save for an omitted expletive.</p><p>“That’s cool. Deathstroke is no joke, though, man, I’d have been scared out of my mind!”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“Yeah, those first responders would have needed to get me some new pants, for sure.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“Hey, Braydon, you should show him yours!”</p><p>“Wait, what?”</p><p>“Yeah, check this out!”</p><p>The blond turns to the side and points to a spot just above his knee. Sure enough, there’s an old, sharp-edged scar there. It looks like the kind of scar left by broken glass, Damian thinks.</p><p>“I got that about six years ago,” the blond- Braydon- says, “from one of Two Face’s goons. They robbed a museum while I was there on a class field trip. I was so scared and hurt after that, I didn’t go back to school for a week! Not until Batman caught Two Face again, haha.”</p><p>“This is mine,” his friend in the baseball cap says, lifting up his shirt to reveal a pattern of thin slash marks on his chest. “Got it from Catwoman herself! I yelled when I saw her, cause, I dunno, I guess I panicked and thought she might be after me for some reason? She rolled her eyes and said ‘don’t flatter yourself,’ and shoved me. Her claws are sharp, man! She barely touched me, but just look at that!”</p><p>“Wow.”</p><p>“We also know a guy who was in a bank when Mr. Freeze came through,” Baseball Cap grins, letting his shirt fall again. “He has wicked scars on his calves from the ice. He said the police had to melt him out with a welding torch!”</p><p>“Fascinating,” Damian says, and this time it’s genuine. He’s gotten used to the way super heroes treat their battle scars- which is to say, mostly as an annoyance. His father has never said as much out loud, but Damian is pretty sure he views his own scars as reminders of past failures. Failure to avoid whatever blow left the mark.</p><p>But that isn’t how these boys see their scars at all. It’s like...like they’re proud of them. He’s never even thought of his as something to be proud of before.</p><p>The two dudes leave, waving goodbye just as cheerily as they had walked up to him, leaving him alone with his research.</p><p>He somehow feels like he has a little bit more energy to tackle it with, though, now.</p><p>Like, maybe, things aren’t all bad.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In an old project, I wrote from Bruce's perspective that he viewed his scars as reminders of both 'carelessness and calculated sacrifice, in equal measure.' Not that Damian would know about any of that. I've just always really liked that line.</p><p>Anyway. Even when you hate everyone and everything, things are never all bad. I promise. Hang in there.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Survivor's Pride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mercer Avenue.”</p><p>“Too small for the Batmobile to fit down. One of Hush’s old hideouts is there.”</p><p>“Mad Hatter aliases.”</p><p>“Peter White, Harry Dodgson, and Lewis Liddel.”</p><p>“Good. How many safe houses on Bleake Island?”</p><p>“Five. Six, if you count Red Hood’s private one, with all the guns no one else is allowed to touch.”</p><p>“First National Bank security codes?”</p><p>“Uhhh...4107 7375.”</p><p>“Good,” Barbara says again, and through the headset Duke can hear her smile. “You’re doing well. You should be proud.”</p><p>“I’d feel prouder if there weren’t still thirty-something files in the folder left to memorize.”</p><p>“Still. I helped almost every other member of the team with this stuff too. Believe me when I say you’re progressing fast.”</p><p>“I’ll take your word for it. Thanks.”</p><p>“You’re welcome. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”</p><p>“Time off? What’s that?”</p><p>“Very funny. You’ve been working hard. I know you were looking to log some more hours in the plane simulator, but you deserve a break.”</p><p>“Well, when you put it that way! Thanks, Barbara. Call me if something happens.”</p><p>“Will do. Have a good time.”</p><p>The line clicks off. Duke pulls off his headset and stretches his arms leisurely over his head.</p><p>He spends so much of his time these days training and patrolling and memorizing and all the rest of it, that he hardly knows what to do with himself in the face of a whole afternoon off. But he can’t deny it is exactly what he needs. He’s been feeling a little out of touch with the larger world, of late.</p><p>Time to reconnect. Time to go back to his roots.</p><p>His roots are in a poor neighborhood near the bay, inhabited mostly by fishermen and dock workers. When the weather’s nice the local kids swarm the streets and entertain themselves the way kids have for centuries: tag, kick the can, catch, hide and seek. Basketball, sometimes, if they can gather enough people and find a sufficiently-inflated ball.</p><p>The adults sit on their porches and trade gossip over sweet tea. Some of them wave to him as he walks by. He waves back. He doesn’t remember their names, but he knows their faces. He remembers playing on their lawns with their kids while his mom sat down to join the conversation.</p><p>He walks by his old childhood house. It’s been painted since he’s last seen it. It honestly looks better white than it ever did cracked and faded red, but he still can’t help but resent the change a little.</p><p>There’s a light on in the kitchen, and the sound of swing music floating out through an open window. He’s happy to see the place so full of life again.</p><p>There’s a little corner store within walking distance. He used to spend his meager allowance there on king-size candy bars and scratch-off lotto tickets, or run out on errands for his mother.</p><p>It’s been totally rearranged since the last time he was in there. And he doesn’t recognize the face behind the counter. But nevertheless there’s a terribly nostalgic sense of familiarity about the whole place. He smiles wistfully as he walks in, heading straight for the candy aisle.</p><p>There’s a little display up at the front near the register, he notices as he approaches with his Snickers bar, selling Batman merch. T shirts, keychains, peel-and-stick decals, the works.</p><p>And it’s not just Batman, he realizes as he gleefully bends down for a better look at those keychains. Nightwing, Batgirl, Red Hood- everyone is represented there. As touristy and gimmicky as it may seem, he’s suddenly seized with the undeniable desire to buy everyone on the team matching keychains.</p><p>He keeps a count as he pulls them from the hooks, making sure not to overlook any of his teammates. Five, six, seven, eight…</p><p>“Hang on,” he says, straightening up. “Hey, come on now, you guys don’t sell any Signal merch?”</p><p>The guy behind the counter- Will, his nametag reads- shakes his head. “Nah, you got it all wrong, man. It’s not that we don’t carry Signal stuff. It’s that we can’t keep it on the shelf.”</p><p>“Say what?”</p><p>“We sell out within three days of restocking, every time. I told the boss we need to start getting a bigger order next time.”</p><p>“Wow,” Duke says, blushing a little in spite of himself. “Is that the truth? He’s really that popular?”</p><p>“This here is a black neighborhood, brother. Those people out there ain’t never had no black superhero in Gotham to look up to before. Same reason you’re in here looking to get one for yourself, isn't it?”</p><p>“I guess you’ve got a point,” Duke says bashfully, snagging an extra Robin keychain to add to the pile for himself. “I’m a...a big fan.”</p><p>“Ain’t we all,” Will says, grinning at him. “If you wanna leave a phone number, I can call you when we get our next shipment in.”</p><p>“Could you?”</p><p>“I got a running list going. Buncha folks that live around here have asked me for it. Wouldn’t be any trouble to add you to it.”</p><p>“...I think I’ll do that. Thanks, man.”</p><p>“No problem. Did you wanna pay for the rest of that stuff with cash or credit?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not black, so maybe it's not my place to comment on this, but I feel like Signal's presence in Gotham would be very important to a lot of people. And knowing that his presence in Gotham is important to a lot of people would be very important to Duke, in turn. Man, he's such a good kid.</p><p>Thanks for reading! One more chapter to goooo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Only The Best Of Bedtime Stories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bruce volunteers at Gotham Memorial Orphanage as often as he can. Aside from his identity as Batman, it’s one of his best-kept secrets- never been published in any newspaper, nor mentioned in any interview. </p>
<p>Because he doesn’t do it for clout. It’s not one of those things he does to maintain his celebrity rich boy image. He does it because he knows the struggles of growing up an orphan first hand, and he knows those kids need all the friends they can get.</p>
<p>Also, because he likes it. He gets to turn off his comms for the night and just be himself. That should be reason enough, shouldn’t it?</p>
<p>While he’s there he typically helps with the cleaning. The staff have told him on more than one occasion that they specifically don’t bother with the effort of dusting the ceiling fans anymore, because that’s his job. In warmer months, he often helps weed out the little vegetable garden in the backyard. All the rows are meticulously labelled by kids who measure their little crops’ heights daily. Sometimes he even helps out with the cooking, although there isn’t much in the kitchen he’s allowed to touch. Unfortunately, being an abysmal cook isn’t just simply part of his image, it’s the truth. He always seems to find a way to burn everything he touches. He does small things, like helping peel potatoes or chop garlic.</p>
<p>But none of those things are the most important thing he does while he’s visiting. With that many children living under one roof, bedtime is, understandably enough, enforced very strictly. The kids all know what time they’re expected to be in bed, with their lights out, and there are hefty penalties for being up late without permission.</p>
<p>Until Bruce comes around. About once a month or so- more often, if he can manage it- he sinks into an armchair in the common room, by the fireplace, and every kid in the place gathers around while he reads them a bedtime story.</p>
<p>He’s a good storyteller. He does character voices, and dramatic pauses in all the right places, and all the rest of it. The kids love it.</p>
<p>This particular evening he’s reading a fantasy tale about a knight and a resourceful thief working together to rescue a captured princess. He can’t help but smile a bit, as he’s reading through the climactic action sequence, glancing around at the looks of delight on his audience’s faces.</p>
<p>He also notices, however, that there are some faces he doesn’t see. Another quick glance and he finds them- Jen and Eric are sitting outside on the back porch rather than listening in.</p>
<p>He finishes the story with good grace. The knight marries the princess, because of course he does. The thief’s criminal record is waved, and everyone lives happily ever after. The children are shepherded upstairs to bed, and only when they’re all gone does he venture outside.</p>
<p>“Hey, you two,” he says as he slips the sliding glass door shut behind him, “it isn’t like you to miss storytime. Or is the whole ‘captured princess’ trope not your thing?”</p>
<p>“No,” Eric scoffs, “definitely not.”</p>
<p>“Maybe when I was a little kid,” Jen shrugs, turning up her nose.</p>
<p>“You still are a little kid,” Bruce points out, sitting down next to her.</p>
<p>“You know what I meant, Mr. Wayne! I’m not six years old anymore.”</p>
<p>“Well, what kind of stories do you want to hear, then, now that you’re all of twelve?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“How about the kind where we don’t have to live here anymore,” Eric suggests mirthlessly.</p>
<p>“Come on, Eric,” Bruce says gently. “You don’t mean that. This orphanage has done so much for you, both of you.”</p>
<p>“I know, it’s just...I just want to be normal. A normal kid, who lives in a normal house. Is that really so much to ask…?”</p>
<p>Bruce sighs. Both Eric and Jen are longtime residents of the orphanage. Eric struggles with anger management issues and depression, and Jen was born with a severe heart condition that requires her to take a variety of medicines and make regular doctor’s visits. Neither of them has had any luck finding an adoptive home in all the years they’ve been here. Who could really blame them for giving up hope?</p>
<p>Well, he’s learned a thing or two about hope in his day. This is what he’s here for. This is what he does.</p>
<p>“Alright, then, here’s your story. Listen close. Once upon a time, there was a little orphan boy, who was just about your age, who wanted nothing more than to be normal. Like everyone else. So one night, he ran away from home.”</p>
<p>“Where did he go?” Jen asked, curious in spite of herself.</p>
<p>“He wandered the streets of Gotham,” Bruce continued, gesturing broadly. “Took a bus to a part of town he’d never seen before, spent his pocket money on a turkey sandwich from a dingy cornerside diner. And while he was out, he observed a million other people, doing all the things they do. In the end, the night was cold, and the boy’s caretaker was worried about him, so he returned home. But he learned a very important lesson that night: there’s no such thing as normal.”</p>
<p>“Yes there is,” Eric insists. “That story’s wrong.”</p>
<p>“Eric. The little boy in that story was me.”</p>
<p>“You really ran away from home?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. I was feeling lost, and confused, and it seemed like the right thing to do, at the time. It didn’t feel like that after a few hours on the street, though. And the lesson is something that I’m still learning, over and over again, every day. There’s no such thing as normal.”</p>
<p>“I still don’t believe it,” Eric growls.</p>
<p>“Maybe not now. But I’m hoping it won’t take running away for you to learn it. And here’s another lesson you won’t believe, but that you’ll see is true once you grow up: the fact that you grew up here doesn’t make you any less than anyone else. You have a unique perspective that no one else has, and that makes you special.”</p>
<p>“I don’t feel very special,” Jen says quietly.</p>
<p>“That’s because we’re not special at all. Mr. Wayne might be special. He’s rich and famous. We’re nobody.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be like that, Eric.”</p>
<p>“You know who else is really special? Batman, for one! You think he grew up in an orphanage, helping potty train toddlers and growing tomatoes in his backyard and still listening to stupid bedtime stories when he was our age?! No. Because he’s the special one.”</p>
<p>“Actually, Batman was orphaned as a child, too. He’s not as different from you as you think.”</p>
<p>Eric and Jen turn to stare at him, openmouthed. “How do you know that?” Jen demands.</p>
<p>“He told me. No really, it’s true! I know Batman.”</p>
<p>“You do, for real?!”</p>
<p>“Mmhmm.”</p>
<p>“How did you meet him?”</p>
<p>“Well...let’s just say, he saved my life.”</p>
<p>He pulls back his sleeve, shows them one of the scars on his forearm. In reality that scar was left there by Killer Croc, about a year and a half ago, but it’s more accessible than most of his earlier scars. A little white lie. The part about Batman saving him is true enough, though, so he thinks it’s probably alright.</p>
<p>The kids goggle at his arm. </p>
<p>“That’s so cool,” Jen whispers.</p>
<p>“How come you didn’t tell us you knew Batman, Mr. Wayne!”</p>
<p>“I didn't think you’d believe me! You don’t believe anything else I say.”</p>
<p>“Weeelllllll...you have the scar and everything.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I do, at that.”</p>
<p>“Can you call him? Can we meet him, too?”</p>
<p>“I would if I could, but I can’t. Batman is a very busy man. I know for a fact that he’s away on a very, very important job tonight.”</p>
<p>“Aw, man.”</p>
<p>“Still, that’s neat, though.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I never knew he was an orphan, too.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Wayne, next time you come back, could you tell us a Batman story?”</p>
<p>“I thought you didn’t want to hear my stories.”</p>
<p>“I changed my mind, I changed my mind!”</p>
<p>“Alright,” Bruce says, smiling. “I’ll tell you all the Batman stories you want to hear. But, next time, ok? For now, I do believe it’s past your bedtime.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The end! Thank you for sticking with this all the way through, I appreciate it. Be safe out there, my friends, and always remember in all that you do: there's no such thing as normal.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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